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She doesn’t see the beast, I realize. She only sees me.
“I love you,” I rasp, tears burning my throat as I press a kiss to her lips.
Jules strokes my hair as I pull back, and for the first time in my life, I feel as though I’m truly home. “I love you, too.”
I shudder as her fingers stroke the side of my face, her touch unbearably soft. “Make me yours, Dimitri,” Jules whispers, her brow pinching with longing.
That’s all I need to hear.
A strangled cry rips from my throat as I thrust back into her channel. Jules moans as I fill every inch of her, and I feel the slick pressure of fangs against my lips as I lower my head to her neck.
Blackness dances at the edges of my vision as my fangs find their mark, sinking deep into her flesh. Jules muffles her cry against the side of my head, her pussy clenching all around me as the iron tang of blood coats my mouth.
I hold her close as I thrust in and out, and a bite of pain cuts through the haze of pleasure as Jules digs her nails into the back of my neck. She drags them across the muscles of my back, digging little trenches into my skin.
I withdraw my fangs slowly, shuddering out a groan of satisfaction when I realize she gave me a mark of her own.
I slam inside her once again — hitting the very end of her channel. Jules groans and grips my hair in her fist, dragging her nipples against my chest as she uses my body for leverage. Her hips move in frantic thrusts beneath me, blood trickling down her shoulder as her core shudders around me.
My limbs tremble as I find my release, holding fast to her as I come. I fill her with everything I have to offer, and I know I’ll never be the same again.
The moment Jules stared down my wolf, she glimpsed my very soul. She broke the spell that’s kept me a miserable beast locked in a fortress of my own making.
For the first time in my life, I’m free. All because of her.
Epilogue
Jules
Five years later . . .
I awake to the feeling of something kicking my insides and roll over with a huff. At eight months pregnant, it’s impossible to get comfortable, and I wake up at least six times during the night to find a better position.
Poor Dimitri. Me and my two giant pregnancy pillows take up most of our bed, leaving only a tiny bit of space for my six-foot-four shifter husband.
Sunlight is peeking through the trees on the other side of the lake, which is new for me. With a business to run and two small kids at home, I almost never get to sleep until sunrise.
But then I remember that today is my birthday. The sound of excited little shrieks drift up from the floorboards, followed by patient shushing.
Grinning, I heave myself out of bed and pull on one of Dimitri’s T-shirts. They’re the only things that fit me right now, but I’m not complaining. They smell like him — burnt cedar and spice. Maybe it’s the pregnancy hormones, but a single whiff of Dimitri’s scent is enough to get me going these days.
I throw on a robe over the T-shirt and pad downstairs. The place is kind of a wreck, the way a house always is when you have two little monsters running around. Naked Barbies, plastic trucks, and blocks are scattered everywhere.
I don’t clean anymore. I’m the CEO of White Glove Maid Service, and one of our own housekeepers works for us five days a week.
Still, old habits die hard. With great effort, I bend down to pick up a few stray blocks and toss them in a bin on my way to the kitchen. The smell of coffee and cinnamon rolls wafts down the hallway, and my mouth immediately begins to water.
I have exactly two cravings these days: sugary carbs and Dimitri.
Waverly’s excited shriek greets me as I walk into the kitchen, and my four-year-old launches herself off the stool she was using and careens into my belly.
“Oaff!” I grunt, though her violent hugs don’t hurt. I’m more worried about the tiny girl ricocheting off my enormous belly.
“Happy birthday, Mommy!” she cries, her arms not quite reaching around my middle as she squeezes me. “Guess what? Guess what?”
“What?” I ask.
“Nana’s here!”
